


Squeaky Musings

by The_Grim_Squeaker



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Headcanon, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:55:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22078063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Grim_Squeaker/pseuds/The_Grim_Squeaker
Summary: This is a collection of headcanons/writing prompts from an old RP site, where I wrote both Maedhros and Tauriel, among others. The first few are the only ones I have left from the site, but I might write more as the muse allows. Enjoy XD
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. Maedhros' First Horseriding Lesson

Nelyo didn't like the look of the pony that was being guided into the corral for his first lesson in riding. He'd already grown to an impressive height; one of his brothers mentioned the possibility of putting one of Atar's anvils on his head to stop him from growing any more. He didn't think it'd help, even if it had been a viable plan to stop him from getting any taller. He was still growing, and it was getting embarrassing. The pony was in deference to his age rather than his size, it was meant to be a good steed for the beginner - a gentle beast that took commands easily and was small enough for even a very young child to scramble onto. But Nelyo was not a small child, even if he was young.

The tutors and the owner of the pony realised their error as soon as the eldest Feanorian stood next to it and then swung one leg over it, giving them a pointed look. As young as he was, it reminded them forcibly of a look his father gave them when he felt they were being excessively dim. He had known as soon as he saw it up close that he would be too tall for it. He stood over it, one foot planted firmly on either side of it, the stirrups hanging to his knees. He could feel the pony there, standing between his spread legs, but he just stood there, glowering at the teachers as his younger brother's helpless giggles rang in his ears.

The peals of laughter got louder when the pony decided that it was a good time to walk away, leaving Nelyo standing with his feet apart, his face burning as red as his hair. He had never been so embarrassed in all of his short life, and the tutors didn't know where to look. The only one that was completely calm was the pony, who started to graze in another part of the corral, oblivious to the laughter and embarrassment of everyone around him. It was only after several moments of embarrassed silence that one of the tutors managed to choke out a suggestion.

"Perhaps Prince Nelyafinwe would be better suited to a larger breed of horse?"


	2. Maedhros' Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based partially on a prompt (your character's favourite gift) plus some fanart I saw years ago of the Feanorians playing music together. I can't remember who did the art, but in the illustration, Maedhros had a flute. It's been a long time since I wrote any of these, and I'm posting all of them as they were originally written. Can't remember whether Moryo actually enjoyed weaving, but the person I knew who was writing him at the time decided he did XD

In the time before the creation of the Silamrils, and when the Two Trees filled the world with light, the sons of Feanor sought pursuits outside of the art of battle, learning what each one was good at and what they enjoyed. Moryo had his weaving, and made beautiful things; Curufin spent more time with their Adar in the forges than anyone else, and was thought the favourite son; Maglor had his music, and he could make the strings of his harp sing in a way unequalled by anyone, whether they were a son of Feanor or not. Maedhros had no unequalled skill in anything - he would work in the forge, crafting beautiful things, without the kind of skill his Adar and younger brother had. Moryo would attempt to show him weaving, and how to braid his hair, and deem him a hopeless case.

One year, Makalaurë gifted him a flute. It was a beautiful thing, silver chased through with gold, neat and delicate designs adding beauty to the functional instrument. It was his younger brother's quiet way of hinting that he might like it if the brother he was closest to found his talent in music, and Maitimo was eager to learn, practising as often as possible in the effort to get to the same level of proficiency as his brother, so he could accompany him when he played for others. Makalaurë had the most patience for the early stages of his lessons, braving the awful sounds he made to encourage him to get better. There was one memorable incident early on when Celegorm suggested the flute would sound better jammed up his arsehole, but the complaints died down as he improved.

He became proficient with the instrument, but he unfortunately didn't have the knack for music that Makalaurë had. He needed to work harder to learn new songs, and he hadn't the ability to invent new music, as his younger brother did. Even so, they played together often, even as the days darkened and the evils of the world reared their ugly heads. They played laments with every death, jigs and reels when their hearts were in them, and even when they weren't. Both brought their instruments with them when they crossed the sea. They certainly kept the others entertained.

And then Maedhros was taken captive, and hung by his wrist from the side of a mountain. Though he couldn't play, his rich baritone bounced off the mountains around him. Though he had never liked his own singing voice, it kept him company as the wind howled around him. Thinking of his brothers, of music and of happier times helped him to while away the hours, but there was only so much that thinking of happier times could do to keep his mind whole. The ellon that Fingon rescued was not the one that was captured. Without his hand, he felt he was next to useless; he could neither write, draw a bow, nor hold a sword. Even holding a book with only his left hand was awkward and ungainly. He reached for things with a right hand that wasn't there, could feel cramps in fingers that had been left in a manacle on the side of a mountain, and though his body healed, his mind had a ways to go yet.

Makalaurë brought his harp to his elder brother's bedside, thinking to cheer him with a song or two, only to find that Maedhros was already sitting up, the case to his flute sitting open in his lap, the beautiful silver instrument gleaming in its dark velvet padding. Moryo had already left him to brood with it in his lap, and Maitimo could feel his fingers moving over it, his blunt wrist passing several inches over the instrument as invisible fingers gently traced the fanciful scrollwork, placing themselves in certain positions to evoke certain notes, moving with speed and rhythm. All in silence. Makalaurë suggested he give it away, to put the reminder of his loss out of his mind, but Maitimo wouldn't part with it. It was a reminder of his missing hand, but it was still his. It was given to him by his favourite brother, and it would have to be pried from the cold, dead fingers of his left hand before he'd give it up.


	3. Maedhros' Diary Post-Sirion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was based off a diary entry someone else had posted on an old RP site from Elrond's perspective. This player had written as if Elrond and Elros eventually came to love Maedhros and Maglor as parents. I can't remember if that's actually canon or not, but I liked it so I ran with it and wrote from Maedhros' perspective.

_Spring F.A.538_  
It's over. Sirion is empty. We still don't have the Silmaril. We'll never have it now. Elwing tossed herself into the sea. Why couldn't she just give it to us? We could have avoided all of this. We tried to reason with her, but she wasn't having it. You'd think with a whole city to think about she'd at least discuss it with us. And now they're dead. They're all dead. I feel sick.

_Spring F.A.538_  
We shouldn't have taken the children. Kano said we should, because we orphaned them. Earendil isn't coming back, Elwing is gone. We should have left them to someone else. We could have given them to one of the survivors. But Kano said we should take them ourselves. "It's the least we can do." He said. What does that even mean? Dragging them further into our war is the least we can do? Seriously? Kano can be such an idiot. The least we could have done was find them carers who aren't bound by oath to tear this world apart until we get the Silmarils back. Not adopt them and dig them deeper into the grave meant for us. They don't deserve this.

_Summer F.A.538_  
They hate us. I don't blame them. Kano is trying to teach them their letters, but they're having none of it. I wouldn't want to learn from my kidnappers either. That would be like Morgoth making me play the flute while chained in Thangorodrim. We don't have them physically chained, but the chains in their heads are enough. Why did we have to adopt them?

_Summer, F.A.538_  
Kano thinks that singing at night will help them sleep. I think they need a break from his voice. They hear it all day, they don't need it at night, too. It's not like they're ever going to think of us as anything but their captors. I can hear their nightmares, they're almost as loud as mine. If I can hear them, they can hear me. That's not a comforting thought.

_Summer, F.A.538_  
Elros is quicker to thaw than Elrond. He's starting to warm to us. I don't understand. Elrond doesn't either, it seems.

_Autumn, F.A.538_  
Elrond is starting to behave. Maybe he's starting to like us. I don't get it. I wouldn't like me. I **am** me, and I don't like me.

_Autumn, F.A.538_  
Elrond needs to stop climbing things. He's going to break his neck someday.

_Autumn, F.A.538_  
I made Elros cry today. I am a horrible person.

_Autumn, F.A.538_  
I'm not sure what their tutors were doing up until now, but these children are lucky they even know which end of a sword is the business end. I should not be hoping that that ignoramus died during the sack of Sirion.

_Autumn, F.A.538_  
I only remembered that I couldn't show them how to draw a bow when I picked it up. I shouldn't have thrown it across the courtyard.

_Winter, F.A.538_  
I shouldn't have yelled at them. They didn't even take the flute out of its case. It's a good thing I caught them, really. Kano would have yelled more if he had caught them messing with his harp.

_Winter, F.A.538_  
Telling them I'm disappointed works better than yelling. It's true, I was disappointed with them, but the effect is different to merely yelling at them. Avorniel mentioned that telling children you're disappointed rather than angry is something that parents do, because to a child disappointment is much worse than anger. I suppose she's right, I always felt worse when Amil told me she was disappointed than when Atar yelled at me. Am I a parent now? When did that happen?

_Winter, F.A.538_  
They remind me so much of the Ambarussa it hurts. I don't know how Kano does it sometimes. He takes to this fatherhood business so easily. Sometimes I can barely look at them without thinking of our brothers. It hurts too much.

_Winter, F.A.538_  
Kano is teaching them to play. He bought them their own instruments. He hasn't tried to teach anyone to play music since he gave me my flute, before the Crossing. He truly thinks of them as his sons now. I wish I could teach them something. Why does it hurt so much?

_Winter, F.A.538_  
Elrond really needs to stop climbing. The ice is treacherous. He's definitely going to kill himself by accident one of these days. I'd swear he does it to piss me off. Kano thinks it's funny.

_Spring, F.A.539_  
I'd swear we had the seamstress let down those breeches only a few months ago. Who knew children grew so fast in such a short amount of time?

_Spring, F.A.539_  
They're still having nightmares. Kano is better at this sort of thing than I am. Patting him on the back with a stump isn't exactly comforting.

_Spring, F.A.539_  
I don't have enough hands for this.

_Summer, F.A.539_  
I seem to have misplaced my longbow. Not that I can use it, but it's still mine. . .

_Summer, F.A.539_  
Elros had it. It's taller than he is. I shouldn't have laughed at the look on his face as he tried to draw it. He looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.

_Autumn, F.A.539_  
Atar. He called me Atar. I don't think he meant to do it, he looked as surprised as I was. Kano was delighted. I think I am too. Even though I know I shouldn't be. We shouldn't be making these children love us. We don't deserve it.

Atar. . .

_Autumn, F.A.539_  
They've been calling Kano Atya for months. The little shits.

_Winter, F.A.539_  
He's finally done it. He's broken his arm. Maybe I shouldn't have reminded him that I told him he would, eventually. At least he let me strap it. Or, I half strapped it and he helped. We have two hands between us. But he'll have two again when it's healed. I can't grow another hand.

_Summer, F.A.540_  
Eru, it's hot. If Elros tells me one more time that my face is the same colour as my hair, I may be forced to kick him. Well, threaten to kick him. I'd probably send him over the walls of Himring if I actually kick him.

_Summer, F.A.540_  
While Kano's away, Nelyo must tell stories, apparently. The problem is thinking up stories to tell them.

_Summer, F.A.540_  
I should **not** have let them fall asleep in this position. I can't feel my legs.

_Summer, F.A.587_  
I keep telling myself that we had to go. We have to get them back. Explaining that to the twins wasn't pleasant. It's not nice when the roles are reversed and suddenly I'm the disappointment. I wish they wouldn't look at me like that.

_Summer, F.A.587_  
They can hear us arguing. Of course they can, sound carries here. Like it did when they came here first. They know we're fighting about the Silmarils. And about them. Kano doesn't want to go. How can he just ignore the Oath? It's unbearable.

_Autumn, F.A.587_  
I've talked him around. I knew he couldn't ignore the Oath. He's as much a slave to it as I am. We have to honour Atar's wishes. We swore an Oath. I just wish it didn't hurt so much to leave the twins. We should never have taken them in. I should never have gotten attached to them. I wish it didn't feel good to hear them call me Atar. There are a great number of things I wish for. A better life for those twins is one of them. A better life than we could give them. Gil-Galad will look after them. Kano's already made them promise they'll behave for him. I hope they do. We might not come back from this.


	4. Memories of Himring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based off the diary entries of the previous chapter. The prompt was a fond memory

Summers in Himring were hotter than they had any right to be. No one wanted to work while the sun beat down on them, instead retreating to the shady places, many drinking watered wine in the effort to cool themselves. Maedhros kept to what little shadows there were, lest he burn to a crisp. Maglor was away for a short time, on a little trip into the wild to help his music come to him. Maedhros thought that sometimes his brother simply needed to get away for a time, to remember and forget, to soothe his Fëa and listen to the music inside before it could come forth. He wasn't worried. He never stayed away for longer than a night. Midsummer was nearly upon them, the whole place was abuzz with preparations, and the brothers had put thoughts of the Silmarils to the back of their minds for a time. There were other things to think of besides their Oath.

As the sun sank below the horizon, and the agreed-upon time came, and started to slowly pass by, Maedhros couldn't blame the boys for not wanting to go to bed. While it was still warm, with the sun gone it wasn't unbearable, and the lethargy that came with the daylight waned again with the rising of the moon, and it seemed like the moonlight was enough to revive the young twins and fill them with energy. With Maglor away for the night, it was up to Maedhros to wrestle the pair to bed, Elros slung over his right shoulder, his stump pressed against the child's lower back to hold him in place, and Elrond balanced on the crook of his left elbow, expecting Elrond to cling to him as he carried them to their room, sitting on one of the beds and depositing both ellon on either side of him.

They pleaded, made excuses, swore that they weren't tired, and that they didn't need to sleep, and Maedhros could only sit there, not able to get a word in edgeways. He had forgotten how something so small could make so much noise. They reminded him forcibly of the Ambarussa, in their exuberance and energy, and his heart ached to think of them. Maglor took to fatherhood easily, he didn't mind that they reminded him of their younger brothers, and maybe that was part of why he kept them close. But the grief of their passing was part of why Maedhros was the more distant of the two. It was still too close to the surface.

At the first breath they took, he jumped into action, asking if they wanted to hear stories. The first question was suspicious, asking if it was a history lesson, and he had to promise it wasn't before making any other movements, drawing both boys to him and settling at the top of the bed, sitting with his back propped up among pillows and toys, extracting something wooden and dropping it on the floor before crossing his legs, one twin resting in the crook of each knee as his ankles folded over each other. They were small enough to fit easily into the gap between his crossed legs, though he had to hope they didn't move too much lest they hit him in places that this particular sitting position left extremely vulnerable.

Once there, he was at a loss for something to say. It wasn't something that happened often. He wasn't sure why he decided the stories were to be of family, of happier times. It seemed that just because they were stories didn't mean they had to be false. He told them about his first horseriding lesson, about how they were lucky they were small enough for their ponies, and their peals of laughter rang through the room. He told them of the flute Maglor had given him, the difficulties he had had in learning to play the instrument, and where Celegorm thought he should stick his flute.

All of the stories were happy, or funny, there was no mention of the Silmarils, or of oaths, just of family and the times when they were happy. Or embarrassed. They were simple stories, all true, some with a little embellishment here and there, and once or twice he told the boys to ask Maglor about certain events in his past, which Maglor would probably be unhappy to hear that Maedhros had told them about, which made them all the more curious. Maedhros would probably get a bit of a bashing for telling them, but then he always was a glutton for punishment.

It seemed like hours, countless stories before the boys finally drifted off, their heads rested on his knees, one the mirror of the other. Maedhros didn't want to move them, lest he wake them up again, so he stayed where he was, leaning back against the pillows. His left hand rested by Elrond's head, his thumb brushing back and forth across the top of his head, through his hair. The memory of his right hand did the same to Elros, though his actual arm fell several inches short of the mark. It was peaceful, comfortable, the weight of the children on his knees was comforting in an odd sort of way, and Maedhros couldn't remember the last time he had felt peaceful.

He couldn't remember when he had drifted off, but he woke up when Elros kicked out in his sleep, his foot connecting with Maedhros' stomach, and he could only be thankful that it wasn't anything else he had kicked. He unfolded himself slowly, carefully, scooping Elrond up with one hand as he moved and carefully nudging Elros onto the bed, putting Elrond in his own before rearranging Elros so that he was lying with his head on the pillows, before hobbling out, legs stiff from sitting in one position for so long, deciding that he should probably go sleep in his own bed before the sun rose again.


	5. Tauriel's Healing Abilities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by reading a thing on magic/healing elsewhere, and it was just an idea that popped into my head during and after reading it. There is probably loads wrong with it, but I just wanted to write it down, since it seemed like an interesting idea. Set immediately after that scene in The Hobbit movies. Can't remember which one it is, I wrote this a long time ago XD

"I'm going to save him."

What did that even mean? She had no idea what she was going to find when she went back in there, when she had a good look at the damage that had been done. All she had was a handful of Athelas that smelled suspiciously like a pigpen, a few chants and herself. What could she possibly do to save him? She spent so much time killing, she didn't even know if she'd be able to do anything at all, much less anything that might save his life. She had blundered into the unknown without really thinking of what she was going to do once she got there, and now she was paying the price for it. She was probably going to watch him die, before going back to Mirkwood to be branded a fool, and probably be punished for dragging the Crown Prince on a wild goose chase just because she had decided that she wanted to help a handful of dwarves and save a few Men from Orcs. Two Elves against so many Orcs wasn't good odds, no matter how cocky she was feeling. But she couldn't just let him die.

He was already on the table by the time she moved back into the house, stepping over a body to get to the table in the centre of the room. She barely saw the other Dwarves, if she'd been paying attention she would have wondered where the others were, and whether they had abandoned this lot to go on to the Mountain. She would have paid more attention to the two girls, pale-faced and scared, who clearly had no idea what was going on, other than their lives had just gotten much more dangerous. Instead, only one face filled her vision, a sickly grey and shining with sweat. She didn't need to put a hand tentatively to his forehead to know that he had a fever, and she pulled away again almost convulsively, Athelas clutched tight in her other hand.

She was almost afraid to look at his leg. It must be bad, for him to be so ill. She had watched him get shot, too busy fighting to go to his aid, and in all the chaos he had slipped through with the others, down the river. And now she stood over him, hands hovering nervously over his leg, wondering if there was any point in praying that it wasn't as bad as it looked. She knew it would be. Weapons tipped with Morgul steel poisoned the blood quickly, but killed slowly, often leaving the victim in agony before they died, screaming and drowning in poison. Her stomach turned as she gingerly pulled the makeshift bandages aside, her hands folding the blood-soaked rags automatically as she stared at the wound.

A brief glance at the other leg told her that it was swollen to at least twice its normal size, if not more, the skin lurid red where it wasn't black. She could feel the heat radiating from it as she gently peeled the bandages away, and the smell of putrefying flesh almost made her gag. There were a lot of eyes on her, watching her carefully and gauging her reaction, and she wondered if they were assuming that she'd come up with some miracle cure. She tried to look more confident than she felt. All she could do was her best.

Her lessons in basic healing came back slowly as she rolled her sleeves up, asking for boiled water from the world at large. She had to assume that the girls lived there, and they jumped to life as she spoke, bustling around the depressingly small room. They started plucking things from various hiding places and swung a large kettle over the fire, clearly glad to have something to do. She washed her hands in some of the water when it came, leaving the water as hot as she could stand before plunging them in, scrubbing her hands firmly with the little cake of soap shyly offered to her. Next was the Athelas, gently rinsed in cold water and excess shaken away, before it was laid to one side so she could focus on the wound. She washed the pus and dried blood from around the wound, letting a rather matronly voice take over her mind, soothing her a little and repeating her lessons to her. It reminded her of the nurse that had taken over her care after her parents died.

With the wound as clean as she could get it, her hands stained red to the wrist and his companions holding him still, she finally took up the Athelas again, grinding it into smaller pieces between her palms before applying them to the wound, fighting the urge to shy away from the heat in his skin, pulled tight and dry against bunched muscle. She could almost feel it throbbing beneath her fingers and she closed her eyes, the words of the chant coming to her as if she had spoken them every day since her first lesson.

_Menno o nin na hon  
i eliad annen annin,  
hon leitho o ngurth._

The chant kept her focused, even as the muscles writhed beneath her fingers, as the Dwarf shook and thrashed and groaned, a sound that would have worried her any other time. She could sense the others around her, their fear at what she might be doing to him, but it all seemed far away, distant as she focussed her entire being on what she was doing. She spread herself forward slowly, assessing the damage from within, pinpointing where she needed to direct her energies according to what needed it most. A small, chastising voice in her mind reminded her that she had never done this unsupervised, and she ignored it, drowning it out with her chant, which started under her breath, and grew in volume as she pushed herself further than she ever had before. She knew what had to be done, but she was starting to stray into territory where she had only observed rather than taken an active part, and she could feel herself stretching, almost quivering with the effort of what she was doing. It was no wonder there were so few healers, she doubted many had the fortitude to go through all of the preliminary training before becoming truly proficient.

She had never called to anything but bone before, and though she knew how to take the next step, knowing something theoretically and actually doing it were two very different things. She gently encouraged blood to divert itself, to flow elsewhere until it was needed in that area again, sending it to support his vital organs rather than flow out through the wound in his leg. It had, luckily, missed several important veins, and without the poison his healing would be swift. She reduced the swelling, taking some of the fever from him and pulling the edges of the wound together, barely even thinking about what she was doing as she was doing it.

She knew she was pushing herself further than she should, her hands were starting to shake, her legs felt strange beneath her, and the room swam, but still she forged forward, using skills she had only studied in theory, listening to how long many others needed to practise and study before they could even attempt what she was doing in that moment. There was infection, so she burned it out, encouraging the poison in his blood to direct itself back out of the wound before she sealed it, holding it closed with her hands as she chanted, feeling both alive and like she hadn't slept for decades. Time seemed to stand still, seconds felt like aeons as she kept her hands firmly pressed to the wound, her chanting keeping her grounded and focused.

After what seemed like a lifetime, she found herself with nothing to do, no more could be done for the Dwarf on the table and she came back to herself slowly, awareness returning to her eyes as she came back to herself. She simply stood there for a few minutes, staring blankly at her handiwork. The swelling had gone down, the skin around the wound a more healthy colour, the wound itself the bright red of a clean and uninfected cut, a little ragged around the edges where the arrowhead had been pulled free. There was a little thrill of triumph, at the realization that she had actually managed to do some good, and it took her a couple of seconds to realize someone was calling her name.

She gawped at Kíli as he spoke, slurring his words a little, and she blinked, suddenly unsure. There was a set of callused fingers brushing her own, and she knew she should pull away, but instead her fingers stretched towards his, intertwining loosely as his words rang in her ears. Do you think she could have loved me?

She didn't know. She didn't know what to say. This wasn't anything new, but she had never been asked anything like that before. She opened her mouth, as if to say something, and decided against it, instead pulling away, drying her hands on a spare scrap of cloth. She ordered him to get some sleep, and he was only too happy to comply, his eyes drooping and closing quickly, his breathing deep and even within seconds.

It was only as she tried to walk away from the table that it hit her how far she had pushed herself. She was so _tired._ She could feel the blood draining from her face, though where it went she had no idea, and she only managed a couple of steps before her legs gave way beneath her, depositing her in a heap only inches away from a chair, which she clung to in an effort to keep herself sitting up, breathing hard through her nose and her gaze fixing itself on the floor, in the hopes that staring at a fixed point in space would make the spinning stop. The hand she put to her forehead felt cold, while her forehead felt clammy under her fingertips, and a sudden, brief smile pulled at her lips, there one second and gone the next, as if she had heard the punchline to some cosmic joke.

Physical exhaustion didn't even compare to what she had done to her own spirit. She felt like she had wrung it out, like a shirt that had just been washed, wringing the excess water out of it again and again until there was nothing left to squeeze out of it. She wondered if she would ever wake up if she fell asleep now, thinking that if she were to allow herself to doze off, she may end up sleeping for at least a couple of centuries. And even then, she might just roll over and go back to sleep if she woke up. The sudden weakness in her spirit made her body weak, and she couldn't even bring herself to try an make herself stand again, or at least sit on the chair rather than sit on the ground next to it with her arms draped over the seat.

As her eyelids tried to droop closed, her eyes rolling slightly as her head rested itself on the wooden seat, she couldn't help but wonder if this was what fading felt like. This all-consuming exhaustion that took her over body and soul, until it felt like there was nothing left of her that didn't want to lie down and sleep for the rest of eternity.


End file.
